


Do Not Resuscitate

by bluejayblueskies



Series: Seen, Unseen, Unsung [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A little jontim if you squint, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, End Avatar Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Gen, Ghosts, Let's play 'how many canonically dead characters can I fit into a single fic', Minor Character Death, Or re-death I suppose, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives) Lives, Tim's Hispanic bc I said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25723669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/pseuds/bluejayblueskies
Summary: “Do you remember anything from before you woke up in the hospital?” Jon asks finally, his eyes still boring into Tim’s soul. “Not- not from when you were here, I mean. From… after.”“Oh, you mean from after I apparently died?”Oh, and there was that, too. According to everyone in the Archives, Tim was supposed to be dead. Blown up, to be precise. Into little bits.Tim shoved that thought in a box, to be considerednever.----Or, a series of tests regarding the supernatural abilities of Timothy Stoker, formerly deceased.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Series: Seen, Unseen, Unsung [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1865830
Comments: 12
Kudos: 100





	Do Not Resuscitate

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is a oneshot in the Seen, Unseen, Unsung universe that loosely takes place around chapter six or seven, though it can be read as a standalone fic (albeit with some unanswered questions).

**_Click._ **

“Right. Test one, regarding Timothy Stoker’s…”

“New spooky powers of resurrection?”

Jon shoots Tim a dry look. “Regarding Timothy Stoker’s affiliation with the entity known as the End. Conducted by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. St- ah, test begins.” He looks expectantly at Tim, and it takes Tim a moment to realize that he wants him to _do_ something.

“Look, Jon, I really don’t know how it works yet.” Tim rubs a sheepish hand over the back of his neck. “Hell, I didn’t even know I _could_ bring people back from the dead until like a week ago!”

“Well, we don’t really know if you’re even bringing people _back_ , exactly.” Jon sets the tape recorder on his desk and leans against the sturdy wood next to it. “It’s entirely possible that you’re just able to conjure images of the dead.”

“Okay, that’s a little hurtful,” Sasha grouses from where she’s leaning next to the office door. “First you tell me that I’m a ghost, and now you’re saying that I might not even be a _person_? Just what, a figment of your imagination?” She pushes off from the wall, takes a few steps forward, and pokes a finger into Jon’s cheek. “Hm. Feels pretty real to me.”

Jon swats her hand away. “Yes, yes, _fine._ ” To the recorder: “Apparitions are corporeal enough to interact with both inanimate and animate objects. More observation is necessary to determine if distance from the source _—_ ah, from _Tim—_ factors into an apparition’s ability to interact with the physical world.”

“So serious, as always.” Sasha steps back into her corner, a small smile playing across her face. “Please, continue.”

Jon stares at Tim, like if he looks hard enough, he can just _see_ the answer. Hell, maybe he _can_. It’s not like Tim knows how any of this avatar stuff works.

Huh. Tim Stoker, avatar of an eldritch fear deity. _Not_ how he thought this week was going to go.

“Do you remember _anything_ from before you woke up in the hospital?” Jon asks finally, his eyes still boring into Tim’s soul. “Not- not from when you were _here_ , I mean. From… after.”

“Oh, you mean from after I apparently died?”

Oh, and there was that, too. According to everyone in the Archives, Tim was supposed to be dead. Blown up, to be precise. Into little bits.

Tim shoved that thought in a box, to be considered _never_.

Before Jon can do that wince-and-apologize routine he’s been putting on all week that, quite frankly, grates on Tim’s nerves, Tim continues, “Nope. Nada. If I did, I think I might actually _believe_ that I’m resurrected from the grave, like some sort of Hispanic Jesus. All I’ve got to go on here is your insistence that a) there are entities out there that feed on our fear and b) that I’m connected to one of those entities. Sounds a bit too Stephen King for my taste.”

Jon sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look, I- I _know_ how it sounds, but since you don’t remember anything from your time at the Institute, you’re just going to have to trust me.”

Tim absolutely does _not_ trust Jonathan Sims. This whole place feels _wrong_ , but wrong in the way that a puzzle piece that fits into a place it does not belong is wrong. Everything slots together, but the image it produces is disjointed, like a blend of color and shape that leaves Tim’s head spinning. His head actually does spin, for a moment, and he places a hand on the wall next to him to steady himself.

Jon looks like he wants to reach out, to ask if something’s wrong, but his hand stills halfway there. Instead, he says, “Why don’t we start small, then? I know you don’t believe that Sasha is- is a, ah, ghost, but just _focus_ and tell me if you can sense anything… _different_ between the two of us. An… awareness of the dead, I suppose.”

_God, this is stupid_. Tim should have just stayed home, horrible nightmares be damned. At least then, all of the weirdness would have been contained in his unconscious mind. 

“Please,” Jon says, giving him that same heavy, sad look, and _god_ , Tim really has no backbone when it comes to attractive men, does he?

“Fine!” Tim throws his hands up in the air. “Fine. Just- just give me a moment.” He squints at Sasha, then Jon, trying and failing to find _something_. He’s just about to snap that _no, Jon, I am_ not _a servant of an eldritch horror, thank you very much, can I go home now?_ when something tickles at the periphery of his mind, and he _feels_ it. It’s like an icicle straight to the heart, equal parts cold and sharp, and he gasps, taking a stumbling step backward.

Just for a moment, Sasha is something… _not_. He tries to think about it, and his mind slides away from the image, unable to get a hold on whatever the _not_ was. He doesn’t think he actually wants to know.

“Tim?” Jon’s hand is on his shoulder, and Tim quickly shrugs it off. Jon pulls back slightly, something like hurt flashing across his face. “What—?” He stops himself, pulls the question back in. “Tell me what you felt.”

“I—“ Tim stares at Sasha, but she’s just _Sasha._ No icicle; no sharp. “I don’t know. Something- something _cold._ But it- it’s gone now. I- it couldn’t have been real.” He tears his eyes away from Sasha to stare at Jon, almost pleadingly. “No, no, it wasn’t real. I’m going crazy, just like everyone else in this bloody basement.” He stumbles toward the door, despite Jon’s protests. “I- I’m leaving now.”

“Tim—“

“Don’t.” Tim wrenches open the office door. “Just… _don’t_.”

* * *

**_Click._ **

“Are you sure?” Jon’s voice is clouded with concern. “Last time, you didn’t—“

“Would I be back here if I wasn’t sure?” Tim snaps. Sasha isn’t here this time. She’d wanted to come, had protested him going back to _that creepy basement that messes with your mind_ by himself—or at all—but the memory of the last time had come to him, unbidden, and he’d practically slammed the door in her face. Guilt washes over him, now, but he tries to stuff it down to deal with later.

“I suppose not.” Jon sighs, then stares at the tape recorder, which is already whirring away on his desk, with an expression that shows no surprise—only resignation. “Test two, regarding Timothy Stoker’s affiliation with the entity known as the End. Conducted by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Test begins.” He glances at Tim, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, clearly considering something. Tim’s never been much for patience, but he makes an effort to keep from breaking the silence as Jon clearly works through some sort of internal monologue before finally saying, “I’d like you to try to resurrect someone.”

Tim can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “Wow, pulling out the big guns today, huh? According to you, that’s pretty much the extent of my super-spooky death powers. Shouldn’t I stretch first or something?”

Jon’s eyes are practically picking him apart. “Well, last time, you managed to isolate the difference between a living soul and a dead one.” At the fire in Tim’s eyes, he amends, “Allegedly. Operating under the _assumption_ that that’s what happened, theoretically, you might be able to lock onto that sensation and summon a previously-deceased soul into our world. Again, assuming that that’s what’s actually going on here and not some other End-adjacent ability.” Jon presses his middle fingers to his temples, as if trying to stave off a coming headache. “God knows it would be easier if I could just _Know_ what was going on, but things can never be that convenient, can they?” he mutters, half to himself, and Tim can’t help the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it grin that flits across his lips.

“Oh, what the hell.” Tim stretches his arms above his head dramatically, pushing away from the wall he’d been leaning against. “I don’t think it’s going to work anyway, so what’s the harm in trying, am I right?”

Surprise colors Jon’s face. “Oh, r- right.” He flaps a hand in a clear _go ahead_.

Tim sits cross-legged on the floor, closing his eyes and adopting his best meditation posture, because nobody can say that Timothy Stoker can’t make light of even the most bizarre situation. He hums a little as he focuses on the _sharp_ , the _cold_ , and slowly even the faint light filtering through his closed eyelids turns black, then _blacker_ than black, and he’s floating. There’s no sensation, warm _or_ cold, just absence of everything, and Tim thinks it’s almost peaceful. Maybe he should meditate more often.

Then, like a shot, his chest explodes with _sharp_ and _cold_ and _too many, too much_ , and he tries to rip himself away but it’s like he’s tethered to it, a hook through his chest and pulling him deeper, deeper, colder, darker, _sharper_ , and he’s not sure when the last time he breathed was. Does he have a body, anymore, or is it just the cold now?

There’s someone else here. He feels them distantly, like the ghost of a ghost, the idea of their presence brushing up against him and standing all of his _not there, not anywhere_ hairs on end. And when he feels the pull of light, of being, of _life_ , and wrenches himself toward it, it attaches itself to his soul.

Tim opens his eyes to _too bright, too warm_ and gasps for breath. His lungs burn like he’d just been drowning, resurfacing for air just before his body began to draw clammy water into his lungs. Maybe he was. He’s distantly aware of hands on his shoulders, squeezing too hard, and his name, but it’s a few moments before he’s aware of his existence enough to register Jon’s face, eyes wide and glazed over with that wild-animal refraction that Tim’s come to recognize as _The Archivist_ bleeding through, inches from his. He’s repeating Tim’s name, over and over, and his fingers dig into the flesh of Tim’s shoulders to the point of pain.

“Stop,” Tim gasps, wriggling against Jon’s vice grip. “Let- let go.”

Instantly, Jon’s hands fly back, and he leans back from where he’s knelt on the ground next to Tim. The glassy look bleeds out of his eyes to leave behind soft, worried hazel. “S- sorry. You- you stopped breathing.”

Great. Awesome. Tim tries to get to his feet, stumbles, and barely catches himself against one of the shelves screwed into the wall. Jon stands as well, looking like he wants to reach out to steady Tim, but his hands remain firmly glued to his sides. “What. The. Hell,” Tim bites out, once he feels a bit more in control of his breathing.

“What the hell, indeed.”

Both Tim and Jon’s heads snap over to Jon’s desk, where someone who had distinctly _not_ been there before sits, one long leg crossed over the other and an expression equal parts distaste and distrust across his face. He glances at Jon, a frown etched deeply across his forehead, and then at Tim, and the frown deepens. “You smell like death,” he says bluntly.

“Gee, thanks. It’s a new cologne,” Tim retorts. “Who the hell are you?”

“Gerard Keay,” Jon says, sounding equal parts startled and strangled. “It- you’re _here_.”

“Last time I checked,” Gerard says dryly. “The Archives look different than I remember.” He hops off the desk, giving the office a cursory scan. “Is Gertrude around? I need to talk to her.”

Jon looks lost. “Uh- uh, no, she’s not. At least, I- I don’t think so.” He shoots Tim a look, like Tim is somehow supposed to know whether or not this person he’s never heard of is _around_ , and Tim shoots one back that says _how the fuck would I know?_ “No, she’s not,” Jon amends. Then, softer: “She- she died a few years ago, actually.”

Oh. Right, death avatar. Suddenly, Tim’s the expert on all things death then? Why the hell not.

Gerard’s face crumples a bit. “Oh.” He sits back down on the desk, knocking a few pens on the floor as he does so. “I- I guess I’ve been gone longer than I thought, then.”

“Uh.” Jon glances at Tim again. “Gone?”

“Yeah.” Gerard waves a hand; Tim notices small black dots on his knuckles. The hand settles, and the dots resolve into small, stylized eyes, wide-open and staring. “You know, across the pond. America’s too big for its own good, in my opinion. Gertrude had to come back here for some business but I stayed behind, I guess.” He locks eyes with Jon, and his head tilts slightly. “You look familiar, mate. Have we met?”

“In… in a way, yes.” Jon’s face has gone from surprised to sharply inquisitive. “I’m the new Archivist.”

Gerard seems to take this as answer enough, though it answers exactly zero questions according to Tim. “Right. Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got business to attend to.” He pushes back off the desk. “Great meeting you officially, Archivist. Terminus-touched.” He nods at each of them respectively and reaches for the door.

Something _tugs_ in Tim’s chest, and Gerard stops like he’s hit a glass door. He turns slowly, a strange expression blossoming across his face. “Oh, damn,” he says, and the sharp sting of fear that rushes through him electrifies Tim like a lightning bolt down his spine. Then, like a puppet with all its strings cut, he crumples to the floor.

Jon makes a strange sound, deep in his throat, and reaches out, like he can somehow stop Gerard from falling post-action. But then Gerard’s just… _gone._ Like he’d never been there in the first place. If it weren’t for the deep thrum of fear still coursing through Tim’s veins, he could almost believe that he _hadn’t_ been.

“Well,” Tim says, his voice carefully controlled and even. “What the _fuck._ ”

“I, uh.” Jon’s face is drained of color, like—well, Tim thinks with a bitter humor, like he’s just seen a ghost. “I need some… some time to think.”

Tim almost laughs. _Jon_ needs time to think? Currently, _Tim's_ eldritch horror number one. “Yeah, great. Awesome. _I’m_ going to go home and try not to drink myself into oblivion.” He thinks about Sasha, and then immediately stuffs the thought in the furthest reaches of his mind. _No._ Sasha’s real. Sasha isn’t… whatever _that_ was.

“Right.” Jon blinks slowly, clearly still processing. “Right.” He steps toward his desk, hand fumbling for the tape recorder, still purring on the hardwood surface. “Uh, test ends.”

**_Click._ **

**Author's Note:**

> does this fit neatly into the main work timeline? no. do I care? also no.
> 
> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated 💛
> 
> find me on tumblr [@bluejayblueskies](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/)


End file.
